In the Hands of Friends
by Gentle Hobbit
Summary: COMPLETE - After Weathertop, Frodo learned the value of a simple touch from a friend. Now, after the Quest, Merry leads a new conspiracy to bring healing to Frodo through simple touch. (No slash. Rating is for non-sexual nudity.)
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer_: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in _The Lord of the Rings_. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

_Author's Note:_ This story was written for Elwen who requested a ficlet in which Frodo receives attention... to his hair. She didn't mind whether it be washed, brushed or cut, just as long as there was attention given and plenty of it.

_In the Hands of Friends_

Five scrolls lay on the table. Frodo stared at them and wondered which one he should look at first. The slim, delicately-leafed one which had barely enough length for the curled ends to overlap? Or perhaps the weighty looking one with thick vellum that coiled around itself so many times that Frodo imagined it could well have once been used as a weapon by an irate wordsmith.

The sunlight fell on them as it slanted deeply in through the window. It was a warm day, and so Frodo had kept shifting the heavy chair away from the beam which had been slowly inching its way across the room. But the chair was too heavy for him and his back was becoming sore from the repeated effort. And his hair, blast it, was continually hanging in his eyes.

He sighed and continued to morosely inspect the pile of scrolls. In actual fact, what he was looking at was a rather beautiful thing. The delicate tubes of paper had been gathering dust for goodness knows how long and the colour had been muted to a greyish yellow. But when Frodo had borrowed them from the bookkeepers' storage, he had disturbed the dust and was now wearing a good deal of it. The scrolls, however, long hidden from sunlight, had retained their colour. The narrow beam of sunlight lit up the nearest outside curve of each tube -- a warm vibrant yellow-cream. And the inside? The thinner ones, which had fewer layers of vellum to block the sun, glowed golden-rich in their curves. And as the vellum arched around to complete the circle, the shadowed length held a delicate blush of gold, muted from the half that was backlit by the sun. And finally, the outside curves, furthermost from the sun, were deep, rich shadows that served as exquisite counterpoint to those nearest the light.

As Frodo gazed at the arches of light and shadow, he heard the door open. Slowly, surreptitiously, he lowered his chin to his crossed arms upon the table. His curls were a thick curtain across his eyes that, he hoped, served as a screen. Perhaps his visitor would think him asleep.

There was no such luck. Especially as it was not one visitor, but three.

* * *

Merry crossed the room. Frodo sat unmoving at the table, chin on arms. In the shadows, it looked as if the hobbit were sleeping, but Merry knew better.

"Perhaps we shouldn't wake him," Pippin said doubtfully. "Although he'll be sore if he stays there too long."

"No," said Sam thoughtfully. "I think he's awake."

"He certainly is awake," Merry said firmly. "If he were asleep, his whole head would be down. Balancing on your chin is not a comfortable way to nap!"

At that, Frodo raised his head and sighed. "There's no fooling you, Merry Brandybuck! But can't you leave this hobbit in peace?"

"Certainly not!" said Merry briskly. "You agreed to come with us to see what we had to show you and I for one am not going to let you weasel out of this."

"All right," Frodo said as he got up stiffly. "I'm not sure if I will find anything suitable for Bilbo's poetry in here at any rate. Perhaps I should do something different."

Merry and Pippin looked at each other. "Something different?" Pippin said incredulously. "It's only the second day you've been in Minas Tirith and you've already taken to keeping to your room. You need to get out and have a sniff of fresh air for a change."

Frodo glanced at him and then looked away. But Merry caught that glance and saw the smallest hint of... what? Resentment? Annoyance? Or something a little darker. Despair? But Frodo then shrugged and merely brushed hair out of his eyes. The hair, of course, promptly swung back. Obviously annoyed, he pulled one particularly long strand back sharply. Unfortunately, his right hand was not yet quite dextrous and it slipped and twisted. The lock was dragged (still held between thumb and forefinger) between the new gap of his missing finger and it was pulled painfully against the scar. 

Frodo hissed in pain and let go. Sam started forward in concern, but halted when Frodo rammed his hand in his pocket and made for the door.

Merry followed quickly and, before the other two could leave the room, caught up with Frodo outside. He took his cousin by the shoulders and turned him around to face him.

"Never mind, cousin. Don't worry about being pestered this afternoon. I will take you to what I want to show you and it will be your choice to stay or not. All right?"

Frodo smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry. I suppose I am a bit moody today." He looked up as the other two appeared. "Lead on, Merry, and I will follow!"

* * *

Pippin threw open the doors and stood aside. "Here it is!" he said triumphantly.

Frodo entered curiously, followed by Sam and Merry. "What is it," he asked. His voice echoed.

"Look, silly, and you'll see," said Pippin grinning.

He took Frodo's hand, and Sam the other, and they pulled him in. High-ceilinged, pillared, and marble floored, the baths were quite large by hobbit standards.

"The run-off from the mountains behind the city is fed, partly, into here," Pippin explained. "The water is channelled through a kind of aqueduct that runs through a warming room, and then into here, through that hole in the wall."

Indeed, water streamed out as if it were a waterfall and with just enough force that it arched clear of the overhanging stone trough.

Pippin smiled to himself as he saw Frodo looking around fascinated, all earlier disgruntlement forgotten. Being in the Tower Guard definitely had its uses. "In you go," he said. "We've got this all to ourselves."

"To ourselves?" Frodo said, startled. "But this is in the Citadel. Surely..."

"Faramir has arranged it for us," said Pippin loftily. "When I explained that the Ring-bearer was dearly in need of a bath..."

"Pippin!"

"Well, look at you. Covered in dust, so stiff you can barely stand upright, and so uptight you can barely smile..."

"Pippin!"

Undaunted, Pippin gestured to soap and towels. "Come on, cousin! You can hardly convince me that this isn't the least bit tempting!"

Cautiously, Frodo walked to the edge of the pool. He tested the water with one toe. It was warm. "It has been ever such a long time since I've had a bath," he admitted. "Washing in basins will do, but I just haven't felt clean for such a long time..." Dreamily, he started to unbutton his shirt.

Pippin, Merry and Sam looked at each other and smiled.

* * *

"Where's Merry," asked Frodo drowsily. "He hasn't come in yet."

He lay in the water, head propped against the edge of the bath. Pippin was standing under the waterfall. Water hit his head and sheeted out thinly in all directions, sparkling as the light caught it.

"He's gone to fetch something," Sam said as he dried himself off. "He'll be back soon." 

Once dried and dressed, Sam knelt down at the pool edge just behind Frodo's head. Materials were arranged beside him to his satisfaction.

"Lift up your head, Mr. Frodo. I'm going to wash your hair for you."

Surprised, Frodo pulled away and turned his head to look up. "Oh no, that's all right. I can do it." He winced as a muscle in his back protested. He faced forward again.

"I think I will do it anyhow... sir."

And before Frodo could protest further, Sam slipped a folded towel between his head and the edge of the bath. "That should be more comfortable for you."

"All right then, Sam. But next time, I'll return the favour."

"If you say so, sir. Now, hush. Just relax and close your eyes."

Sam scooped water with a small hand-held basin and slowly poured it over Frodo's head. Stiff, dusty curls darkened to black and slowly straightened. Sam poured again. Hair slicked down over Frodo's face and even over half his shoulders.

Pippin swam up to them. He whistled. "When did you last have a haircut?"

Frodo's voice was muffled. "Just before we left the Shire."

Sam picked up the soap. He sniffed at it. "Smells nice," he said. "But what it is beats me. Nothing from the Shire at any rate. But it will do."

Sam smoothed well-lathered hands over Frodo's hair. He combed his fingers through and worked the soap into Frodo's scalp. He closed his eyes and started to hum a soft tune, a gentle melody from the Shire.

* * *

Frodo leaned his head into Sam's hands. Sam's strong fingers were pressing into his scalp, rubbing in tiny circles. Skin that Frodo didn't know was tired and dull became alive. Fingers moved skin, pulled and pushed it against bone until it tingled. When the crown of his head had been invigorated, the fingers moved down to the right side above his ear, searching new skin, new hair, and gently but firmly massaging those. His left cheek lay cupped against Sam's left hand. Frodo sagged against the side of the pool. His neck felt weak. His head felt heavy.

But now his head was being given over to the support of Sam's right hand and Frodo breathed deeply as fingertips combed up behind his left ear and through silky-wet locks. Soap lathered freely and allowed the fingers to glide through softly. No snarls tugged, for Sam was meticulous. Tangles were softly teased apart before fingers ever combed their way out from the roots.

And then, once the left side had become as warm and vibrant to the touch as had the right, he was bent forward. But even in the few seconds it took for Sam to cradle his head in his outstretched fingers and guide it forward, Frodo felt both disappointment and then, quickly, relief. Disappointment because the idea of holding his own head up seemed now like an impossible task, and relief, for Sam did not let his neck bear the hanging weight. Instead, Pippin was standing in front of him and Frodo's forehead came to rest against the younger hobbit's chest.

Frodo sighed as Pippin's hands laid themselves on his shoulders. "Thank you," he murmured. "I don't know what you two have done to me. I believe I couldn't possibly move a muscle."

Pippin said nothing, but, as Sam continued to work with the lather, the younger hobbit began to dig his fingers into Frodo's shoulders. Not too hard so that muscles bruised, but enough so that, even as they hurt, warmth shot through and muscles relaxed.

Frodo gasped, taken by surprise, but soon he welcomed the pain, for it was good and did not last long, leaving only the pleasure of unstiffened sinews and the warmth of heated skin.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer_: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in _The Lord of the Rings_. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

.

_In the Hands of Friends - Part II_

.

Merry slipped through the large doors and closed them behind him. There was no one outside, but he did not want anyone in the citadel drawn to the baths in curiosity over the hobbits. No, Merry would not allow anyone to disturb them this afternoon. Luckily he had been able (through subtle logic that only a hobbit could follow, or unwind) to convince Faramir to arrange for different duties for those who might have had business nearby.

Merry smiled to himself. Even the new King did not know about these baths. Aragorn was likely far too busy at the moment to even wonder if there were any. Merry, at any rate, was not about to volunteer such information just yet.

And what he gazed upon now was reward well worth it: Sam kneeling by the side of the pool with his hands working through the wet wavy hair plastered down the back of Frodo's neck; and Frodo's head resting, in turn, against Pippin's chest while Pippin's arms framed his older cousin, his hands working at the muscles on Frodo's shoulders. Water glistened on bare skin.

"That's more like it," said Merry with satisfaction. 

Pippin looked up briefly and winked. "For you, maybe, standing there watching. How about lending a hand? Why don't you take my place?"

"Not a chance," Merry said. "I've already dried and dressed. Besides, my skills will be used soon enough."

At that, Frodo looked sideways and up at him. "What does that mean?" he asked. "I can't imagine there's anything else to be done. These two have quite thoroughly spoiled me as it is."

"Frodo, Frodo, my dear Frodo, you are sadly mistaken." Merry put down the bundle that he was carrying. "As well as possessing a shocking lack of imagination." He looked at Pippin. "Just the shoulders so far?"

"Um hmm," said Pippin.

"Done," said Sam. "All right, Mr. Frodo, close your eyes again. I'm going to rinse you off."

Lather and water streamed down Frodo's arms and back and created widening circles of foam on the surface of the pool. He raised his head slowly (leaving a trail of lather down Pippin's front) and Sam poured again.

* * *

The warmth of water cascaded all about him, slicking his hair even flatter and straighter than before. And there was Sam's hand again, working out the last possible traces of lather. Frodo chuckled to himself. It was as if Sam were a dog worrying at a bone. Fingers would slide in and up and give a vigorous shake and rub and then move onward. Shake, rub. Shake, rub.

Finally, the last of the rinse water was poured over him. Sam seemed satisfied and sat back. 

The next thing Frodo knew was the peals of laughter that echoed around the baths. It sounded a little odd though, as sodden hair covered his ears securely. Sound distorted and magnified itself.

"What?" he said perplexed. Only it was difficult to speak with a smooth wet curtain of hair covering his mouth.

"Where's he gone?" he heard Pippin say. "Sam! What have you done with my cousin?"

Sam's voice came after a slight hesitation. "I don't rightly know, sir. He was here a minute ago."

Hair was lifted from his face and smoothed aside.

"There he is," came Merry's voice.

Suddenly a towel was scrubbing his hair vigorously. Someone was supporting his head again for which he was grateful. It was difficult to hold his own while he was being dried so energetically.

"Someone give me a towel, would you?" he said dazedly. "I want to dry my face."

"Oh, no, you don't!" said Pippin in front of him. 

And Frodo felt Sam's hands rest his head back down onto the towel folded under. A moment later, another towel was wiping his face.

"Don't open your eyes yet," Sam's voice said softly. 

And then a soft bit of cloth was being touched ever so gently to the corners of his eyes.

"I know how you hate water in your eyes, Mr. Frodo. Just a moment..."

Feather-light touches over his eyelids. Delicate touches taking droplets away from eyelashes.

And finally the odd, ticklish dab to the inside of each of his ears.

"There!" said Sam with satisfaction.

Frodo opened his eyes. Sam and Merry were kneeling over him. Pippin was leaning against the side of the pool.

Frodo smiled. "My goodness, I never knew that having one's hair washed could be such an event. Thank you, you two. That was heavenly. But I think that I should get out of the pool now or I will be terribly wrinkled."

When he had dried himself, he looked around for his clothes in vain.

"Merry," he said sternly. "Where are my clothes?"

Merry grinned. "They are quite safe. Never fear! You won't be needing them quite yet."

"What?"

But before he could protest further, he was firmly led to what looked like a low stone table. A table, it seemed to him, but perhaps it was a bench for the Men who used these baths. Nevertheless, it was well-lined and padded with towels.

"Lie down on your stomach."

Frodo looked at Merry suspiciously, but did as he was told. "What if anyone comes in? I don't feel quite right lying here with nothing on."

"Nobody will come in," Pippin said coming up. He was dressed and mostly dry. "Relax! You're not to feel the least bit proper today. There was enough of that yesterday!"

"Good heavens, yes," said Merry. "Today is for us, so stop fussing!"

"And close your eyes," Sam added.

Frodo did so, a little reluctantly. It was all very well for Sam to tell him to close his eyes, but Frodo didn't quite trust three hobbits who clearly had some sort of devious plan. Three fully clothed hobbits, that is. Frodo sighed and let his head relax, cheek to the towels.

But soon he forgot to be suspicious, for in that moment someone took his right arm (Sam, he thought), another took his left (Merry, perhaps) and finally the third (Pippin?) was at his feet. 

Hands rubbed, and pressed, and gentled, and, bit by loving bit, coaxed out kinks and knots from muscles that somehow (despite their long soak) still held the deep memory of tension -- the long memory of forced march and agonizing effort through evil lands.

Pain shot through his left arm, but quick and nimble fingers chased it away. Aching soreness was soothed with firm strokes along the sinews of his right hand. Cramps that curled the scarred and abused soles of his feet were banished by the almost punishing dig of knuckles against the tender arches.

Fingertips wriggled between his toes and bent them back and forth. Hands pressed and padded down either side of his spine. Fingers kneaded his buttocks and thighs, and worked their way down to dig into his calves.

All of this was done in utter silence on the part of the three working over him. But Frodo lay there gasping, wincing, and sighing -- a hobbit transformed into a full repertoire of sounds. And if he should ask for mercy for one especially sore spot, he was ignored, yet soon the soreness would leave. And if his sense of propriety demanded that attention to his bottom should cease, it was to no avail, for he was made to suffer the indignity nonetheless.

In short, whatever Frodo might say or plead, he was at the mercy of the three. But slowly inhibitions fled and instinctive clenching of muscles ceased. Bit by bit, he became contentedly defenceless and utter quiet descended over them all.

And at the end, when softly, carefully, his arms were laid at his sides, Frodo was quite simply the most bonelessly relaxed hobbit east of the Sea.

_To be continued..._

  



	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer_: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in _The Lord of the Rings_. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

  


_In the Hands of Friends, Pt. III_

On a table, by a pool, there lay a hobbit. Not an active, energetic hobbit, fully dressed with the gleam of plans and conspiracies in his eye, nor a disgruntled, reclusive hobbit with nothing to give him ease or hope for a happier future: he was a well-massaged hobbit, and that means comfort.

Around him were ranged three other hobbits like a committee, fully dressed, armed with towels, combs and even a pair of scissors. The scissors were held firmly by one Meriadoc Brandybuck, and woe betide any other hobbit who tried to divest him of that most important item!

"Is he asleep," asked the youngest hobbit of the three, whose name was Peregrin Took.

"That he is," said the sturdiest hobbit, Samwise Gamgee. With a quiet fluid motion, he squatted down and looked at the face of the somnolent Frodo Baggins. "Fast asleep."

"Good," Merry said briskly. "We have time to prepare, then."

And so the three hobbits each hoisted their armful of towels and left Mr. Baggins to his rest.

* * *

A hand flattened itself against his back and shook him ever so gently. So gentle and slow was the motion, and so utterly limp were his muscles, that Frodo's body swayed slightly with the movement.

He opened one eye.

"Wake up, Mr. Frodo," Sam said to him, and there Sam was, kneeling beside the table.

"Umm?" answered Frodo articulately.

"We don't want you to get stiff lying too long on your stomach. Time to get up."

"Do I have to?"

Merry chuckled from behind him. "No, but you'll probably regret it if you don't."

"True," Frodo mumbled. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled his hands up to his shoulders and pushed himself into sitting. "Oh my," he said as his muddled head didn't seem to want to cooperate. He felt slightly woozy. "I'm not sure I can stand."

"That's all right," said Pippin. "You won't have to for long. Up you get." And with that, he put one of Frodo's arms over his shoulders and put his own arm around Frodo's waist. Frodo's head lolled heavily against Pippin's shoulder. Pippin stood him up. "Right this way, and then you can sit down again."

"Where are we going now?" asked Frodo vaguely as they made their way to the back left corner of the Baths.

"Here!" said Merry as he opened a door set in a wall diagonal to the rest of the room.

Frodo blinked as sunlight streamed in. As the four hobbits entered, he gasped. Thoroughly awake now, he could see that this small corner room was in fact a kind of solarium, a glassed-in balcony that served as the fourth corner of the main room of the Baths. Arched and fluted mullions traced a delicate pattern between bevelled and jewel-like glass. Through the window, mountains could be seen, Emyn Arnen to the left, and the Ered Nimrais to the right. The Anduin sparkled as it wound its way down to the Sea.

Pippin walked Frodo over to a carved wooden bench with a high back. Even though the bench was large for hobbits, Frodo could see upon it an impressive pile of towels neatly folded and inter-woven in imitation of a chair. There were even arm rests, and towels hung thick over the edge of the back. A footstool was likewise adorned.

"Up you get," said Pippin, and he and Merry lifted Frodo up onto the pile of towels. His head rested at the top of the back of the bench (cushioned, of course, by yet another towel). His feet rested comfortably on the raised footstool.

The sun poured in through the windows and Frodo's skin shone in the light.

"Perhaps I should have my clothes back. I feel awfully exposed up here," he said a little nervously.

"All in good time," said Merry. "No-one can see you here. Look, there's nothing but mountains and the river out there."

"Unless the Eagles come back to visit us," said Pippin mischievously.

Frodo sat up straight in alarm before common sense asserted itself. "Pippin!"

"_As_ I was about to say," said Merry a little sternly as he pushed Frodo back against the cloths, "it will do you good to do some sunbathing. Good for the skin."

"Something we've had precious little of, sir," Sam added. "Enjoy it while you can. There aren't any of these here solariums in Hobbiton."

"Then why aren't you "enjoying" it, Sam?" asked Frodo with one eyebrow upraised.

Sam looked at the windows uncomfortably. "I might... another time. At any rate, I spend more time out of doors than you."

"All right then. What is in store for me now? Are you simply going to leave me here and let me bake in the sun?"

"No, we are going to cut your hair."

"Oh," said Frodo faintly. "Dare I let you?"

"I'll have you remember that I cut your hair once before," said Merry. "You had no complaints then." And with that, he stood on the platform of several footstools pushed together behind the bench. Indeed, there was room for all three hobbits.

* * *

Merry burrowed his hands between Frodo's neck and the edge of the benchback and pulled out the ends of the thick locks of hair until all hung loosely about the shoulders. Pippin handed him a comb.

"Your hair is almost dry," Merry said thoughtfully. "I'll have to wet it a bit to comb it out properly."

"Half a tick," said Pippin and left only to return quickly with a dripping wet cloth. Merry took it and wound Frodo's hair within it. He squeezed the water through and removed the cloth.

"That's better," he said and began the job of untangling. Newly wet hair lost its curl again, and smoothed out gradually under Merry's careful wielding of the comb. Snarls near the ends of the hair were dealt with first, with Merry's deft fingers holding the hank between scalp and tangle. No painful tugs were allowed to startle Frodo. Then the comb reached its way to the scalp and was pulled outward again and again in long smooth strokes as dark strands fell smoothly to bare shoulders. More strokes followed from top of forehead, over the crown and down to the nape of Frodo's neck. Strands followed, resettled, and fell forward again.

At last all was smooth and free of snarls.

"Scissors?" said Merry, and Sam handed them to him.

"I suppose now is not the time to ask Frodo what he looked like after the last time you were let loose on him with scissors, hm?" said Pippin with a grin.

Merry ignored him. "Now, Sam, if you'd like to see a master at work, then observe closely."

"Yes, sir," Sam said good naturedly with a sideways glance at Pippin. "I've cut hair before, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to learn the Brandybuck style."

Merry started at the crown of Frodo's head. Combing up a strand of medium thickness, he held it with two fingers, while his thumb stretched down to touch the scalp at the roots. A full four inches of hair flopped loosely past his fingertips.

Sam whistled. "That's half a year's growth and no mistake."

"Well," said Frodo, "it wasn't something we gave much thought to on the Road, though I suppose we could have done at Rivendell."

Merry and Pippin looked at each other. 

"We did," said Merry.

"Oh," said Frodo sheepishly and was silent.

Snip! Four inches of hair fell. Merry worked his way around the top of Frodo's head. Soon half dried curls of hair festooned the top edge of the bench and the floor behind it. The rest of Frodo's hair was drying rapidly as the sunlight shone warmly upon it. Smooth locks were slowly regaining their springiness and straight became wavy.

Another lock stretched out through Merry's fingers. It was measured and, snip! Off it came.

* * *

The scissors had moved near his ear. Frodo closed his eyes (he seemed to be doing that a lot today, he thought) and let the sound and feel of the cutting distract him.

When Merry combed up a new swath of hair, the tips of the teeth briefly touched Frodo's skin and then moved outward in a shirr of sound. Air felt cool under the lifted hair. Then fingers held the hair firmly at length, and the thumb pressed to his scalp. Snip, snip went the shears and Frodo felt another lock fall briefly to his shoulders and then to the floor.

It felt strange, he thought, to have such attention paid to his hair. It had been a long time since he had given his hair any thought whatsoever. During the Quest, it had been of little importance to him at all, save in two places.

On Caradhras, it had been a welcome layer of warmth between his head and the hood of his cloak. He had been so cold, so cold that he still felt as if his teeth would chatter if he were to think about it. The other place had been Mordor: another place where he had been cold. Only, there his hair had been so dirty that in places it had even stood stiffly away from his head. There, he had longed for the feel of the softness that had nestled under his hood on Caradhras. He wanted, oh so badly, to be free of the matted dirt. In fact, if he had had any scissors, he would have cheerfully hacked it off.

Merry had come around to the front now and was kneeling on the bench. Frodo opened his eyes to find Merry watching him quizzically. 

The balcony was warm and the sun dazzling. His friends were near. His hair was clean and, oh heavens, it was _soft_. All was well.

Frodo smiled. Merry's eyes crinkled and he nodded. He went back to work.

* * *

Fully dried curls wrapped themselves around fingers. Glints of ginger and chestnut glistened from every strand. Rich dark brown shone vibrantly in the sun.

"Time for a final comb through," Merry said with deep satisfaction and walked back around to stand on the footstools.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he set the row of comb-teeth to Frodo's forehead and, with not a little pressure, pulled it back as he had done before over the curve of Frodo's head and down, down, down, to the inward curve of the nape of his neck. Curls straightened, and then sprung back.

Frodo sighed loudly. "Oh my goodness. That is as good as a massage!"

"It is a massage, silly!" said Merry fondly and reset the comb to Frodo's right temple. Press, pull, and curve... from temple, up and over ear and down -- a soft dragging of teeth against scalp. Pippin chuckled as Frodo turned his head quickly to the left to allow Merry easy access.

"Oh," Frodo said dreamily. "That is lovely. Why is it that only other people can comb one's hair like that?" He paused, breathed deeply, and then said plaintively... "Do the left side, please?"

Merry switched the comb to his left hand and repeated the action. Touch, pull, drag... and down. Frodo's head was eagerly laid right ear to towel.

Sam laughed quietly to himself and shook his head. 

"If I may make so bold, sir, I'd like to try something."

"Of course," mumbled Frodo contentedly.

Sam tipped Frodo's head forward. Merry and Pippin crowded around curiously.

Very slowly, very deliberately, Sam touched the tips of the teeth to the nape of Frodo's neck, and combed upward dragging firmly but not harshly against scalp. Chestnut curls bunched above the comb. And slowly, ever so slowly, as strands of hair fell through the teeth, they drifted down redly in the golden light of the sun.

The effect on Frodo was electric.

"Oh my," he gasped, and a shudder ran through him. "_What was that?_"

The three hobbits looked at each other and grinned.

"Oh," said Sam mildly, "just an old hair-combing trick. Another thing you can't do for yourself."

Eagerly, Pippin took the comb.

* * *

Yet another new experience, thought Frodo in baffled wonder. The row of tiny points shivered up, up, up past his right ear to his temple. A convulsive shudder ran down his neck, between his shoulder blades and down, down, down his spine.

And finally it was Merry's turn... and as the comb crept up towards his left temple, and one by one his hairs came loose in the tiniest of pinprick tugs to drift down and resettle as they tickled at the pores of his skin, Frodo exultantly let his back arch in the pure pleasure of being alive and being gifted with the joy of new experiences.

No longer did he need to skulk, remorseful, in his room. No longer did he need to feel alone and dead to new sensation. No longer did he need to let guilt overwhelm him for past deeds. No. Guilt was there, but it did not need to rule him.

No. His friends were _here_ and that's what mattered. And they took delight in giving him this whole afternoon of comfort and pleasure.

His hair was cut. Frodo lay back trustingly. He could _feel_ again. And his hair? He couldn't see it, but he could _feel_ the softness, the shortness, and the lightness of it. More than that, he did not need to know.

"Bless you all," he suddenly said thickly.

And three hands laid themselves on his shoulders.

His hair was cut.

_The End_


End file.
